“For you to stop being so nice to me?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled, and the smile that turned his lips was desperately tender. Thankfully, it only lasted a moment before he clapped his hands. “All right, asshole,” he said in a bracing tone. “What do I have to do to get you to calm the fuck down? Is that better?”
“Much!”
“Well, then go sit down and shut up and let me get some dinner because all your yapping is making me hungry.” He shoved me in the direction of the couch. “And no losing my page in that book! I’m just getting to the good shit.”
I’D SAT IN Katie’s player box before, but that hadn’t been on centre court and she wasn’t the world number four. And the press hadn’t spent all tournament looking at those empty seats.
Miles had told me I didn’t have to come and maybe I shouldn’t have, but I’d said I would, and my anger at people’s assumptions when I spent time with other men cut both ways. So, there I was, sitting alone in Miles’s box as he stepped onto centre court for the first match of the afternoon. He shot a glance my way as he headed to his chair, our eyes meeting across the distance. To anyone else, he probably just looked determined, but I knew well the way he tensed his jaw when he was trying not to smile.
I tried not to smile back, my skin prickling at the knowledge cameras would be watching me. Even now, the TV commentators might be discussing this new development in the ongoing saga of Miles’s missing team, but I had come and I was determined to enjoy myself. Determined not to let fear win.
And I did enjoy myself, because you don’t become a tennis player without being a tennis fan first and this was Wimbledon. That it was Miles playing only made it sweeter, because when he won amazing points, it was me he turned to – every fist pump and roar one we shared like there was no one else in the stadium, like the cheers of the crowd were as far away as the wash of the ocean.
He won in straight sets, and I could well imagine the com-mentators banging on about the Callahan freight train because not once had he looked beatable. He’d been on fire, playing better than I’d ever seen, and I couldn’t but wonder if it was because when he looked toward his box, no one existed but me.
With the match over, Miles joined the on-court interviewer, his smile broad and infectious even at this distance. He received congratulations on the match and answered a question about his game, and then because the rest of the stadium existed after all, theinterviewer said, “We couldn’t help but notice your player’s box isn’t empty today. Matteo Russo is here scouting out the competition.”
“Well, you said I could invite a friend,” Miles replied with ease. “Matteo and I have known each other since juniors. I always knew he’d be back playing at this level again, so it’s great to see him make the fourth round this year.”
“Absolutely,” the interviewer agreed as I desperately hoped the cameras weren’t picking up my reddening cheeks. “Perhaps you’ll be back tomorrow to sit in his empty box? When he takes on Anton Janicek?”
Miles glanced my way. The distance was too great to allow for any real communication, but there was a hint of ‘what about it?’ in his smile. “Maybe.” And then perhaps just because he needed to say more, or because he needed to put some distance between us, he added, “The second half of any tournament is always strange. The place is bustling at the beginning, but by this stage you’re running out of people to talk to.”
“Another advantage of having a team with you.”
“Mostly my sister, if I’m honest,” Miles said. It sounded like a harsh dig at his team, and I realised that, beyond calling Leo Mannering a grumpy old shit, he’d never talked about them. “She’s sad to have missed out on her England trip this year.”
“You’ll have to make it up to her next year,” the interviewer laughed. “For now though, congratulations again. Miles Callahan, ladies and gentlemen, through to the round of sixteen!”
I left him to his cool-down and his press grind, and hit the courts to drill my shots over and over until I stopped thinking.
It was getting dark by the time I got back to the apartment, but since he’d had a dinner thing to attend, I wasn’t expecting him until late, if at all. Safer if he didn’t come, yet I hoped he would because I had the self-preservation skills of a gnat.
He arrived just after nine, dressed in navy slacks and a pastel pink button-up shirt, its cuffs rolled up like he’d walked right out of a magazine spread – as desperately unfair as the smile that was an even greater weapon than his serve.
“I feel extremely underdressed all of a sudden,” I said as he dropped onto the couch beside me, sliding an arm around my shoulders. He smelled faintly of sweat and perfume and alcohol and I lifted my brows at him. “Smells like you had a fun night.”
“I’ve had one drink, I swear,” he said, lifting a leg to drape it over mine. “So if you tell me I’m too drunk and am off-limits I will cry.”
“Sounds entertaining.”
“You’re a monster.” He pulled me against him for a kiss, lips lingering as he added, “It was amazing having you there today. You should come next round too. Should I come to your match tomorrow?”
“No!” I said, pulling back enough to shake my head. “No changing anything, remember?”
Miles rolled his eyes. “Fine but you’re missing out. That was fun.”
“You don’t usually have fun playing?”
“I used to, but not for ages. My team are boring and you are a delight.”
Hooking my leg with his, he drew it toward him as he leaned in, pushing me back until I was lying on the couch, this god of tennis atop me. He was already more than half hard beneath those tailored slacks and he kissed me like a starving man. “Such a delight,” he murmured. “I want you to know that I skipped dessert so I wouldn’t be late.”
“Oh no. Were you at the place with that chocolate mousse cake? Because if so, I cannot live up to what you have lost.”
“Shut up,” he growled, and made it so by kissing me deeply,one hand gliding down to grasp my hip while the other slid into my hair. He was all weight and heat and silken limbs, and no small part of me wanted to tear his shirt open heedless of the fine little buttons. “God, Mat, I want you,” he said with a breathy groan as he dug his fingers deeper into my hip. “Can I? I’ll be gentle so you won’t feel it tomorrow, I promise. Say no though, if you don’t—”
